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ODE ON IMMORTALITY 



Will you see the infancy of this sublime and 
celestial greatness ? Those pure and virgin 
apprehensions I had in my infancy^ and that 
divine light wherewith I was borjt^ are the best 
unto this day wherein I can see the universe. 
By the gift of God they attended me into the 
world, and by His special favour I remember 
them till now. Verily they form the greatest 
gift His wisdom could bestow, for without 
them all other gifts had been dead and vain. 
They are unattainable by books, and therefore 
I will teach them by experience. Pray for 
them earnestly, for they will make you angel- 
ical and wholly celestial. Certainly Adam 
in Paradise had not more sweet and curious 
apprehensions of the world than I when I 
was a child. 

THOMAS TRAHERNE 




NTIMATIONS OF 
IMMORTALITY 

AN ODE BY 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



PORTLAND MAINE 

THOMAS B MOSHER 

MDCCCCVIII 



^l^.'i^l 



COPYRIGHT 

THOMAS B MOSHER 

1908 



7l\^9lc^ 



i I wo Caojcs riecbi.iv \ 

i OCT 14 J l^^^ 



9: 



Foreword 



p^nTP*^ HIS great Ode, composed durmg 
the period of l8o^-o6 while 
Wordsworth resided at Gr as- 
mere, was writte7i with two years' 
interval at least between the first four and 
the seven remaining stanzas. First printed 
in 1 80 J it bore the simple title of Ode with 
a motto prefixed: Paulo majora canamus. 
Later on, in 181 ^, the title was enlarged with 
characteristic dififuseness to Ode. Intimations 
of Immortality from Recollections of Early 
Childhood. It then had for its motto three 
lines from, an earlier poem on the Rainbow 



FOREWORD 

{1802) which appears in all subsequent reis- 
sues of the poem, 

I shall now touch tipon one of the most 
rem>arkable literary discoveries of recent years. 
In IqO^ Mr. Bertrafn D ode II put to press 
The Poetical Works of Thomas Traherne, 
B. D. (1636?- 1674), now first pubHshed 
from the original manuscripts. Herein a 
parallelism of thought, if not an actual 
sequence of ideas and their expression, existijtg 
betwee^i the author of the Ode and a hitherto 
unknown poet of over two centuries ago was 
set forth as follows : 

^^ Another poet with ivhom Traherne has some remark- 
able affinities is Wordsworth — not the Wordsworth of 
later life, when his poetic vein, if not exhausted, had at 
least grown thin and unproductive, but the Wordsworth 

vi 



FOREWORD 

of the magnificent ode ^ ^Intimations of Immortality from 
Recollections of Early Childhood.^ . . . 

^'It is hardly too much to say that there is not a thought 
of any value i?t Wordsworth's Ode which is not to be 
found in substance in Traherne. Of course, I do not say 
this with any view of disparaging Wordsworth^ whose 
Ode, even if it had been, as we know it was not, derived 
from Traherne, would still have been a masterpiece. Its 
merit, like that of Gray's ^Elegy,' depends at least as 
much upon its form as upon its substance^ and that, of 
course, was all Wordsworth's own. It is in a measure 
a testimony to the authentic character of their inspiration 
when two poets, unknown to each other, produce works 
which are so nearly identical in substance and spirits ^ 



I See Introduction to The Poetical Works of Thomas Traherne, 
pp. Ixxvii-lxxviii. Mr. Dobell within a few months has also pub- 
lished Centuries of Meditations by Thomas Traherne, {1636?- 
1674) now first printed from the author's. manuscript. London, 
1908. We cannot too gratefully acknowledge our sense of personal 
obligation to the editor of these fascinating volumes. 

vii 



FOREWORD 

It is possible that this view may not find 
ready acceptance with those who have been 
life-long adherents of the Wordsworthiajt 
cult. For myself I have no desire to 7nini- 
mise Mr. DobelVs discovery or its implications. 

Far from lessening in my esteem the merit 
of what for most of the race has come to stand 
as the greatest Ode in the language this reha- 
bilitation of Traherne whose name is restored 
to the world when it seemed extinguished for 
all tim^e., leaves me with a renewed appreciation 
of Wordsworth' s abiding achieveme^it : with a 
deeper and, if that were possible, a m^ore last- 
ing hold upon the " truths that wake, to perish 



never'' 



T. B. M. 



ODE ON IMMORTALITY 



All appeared new and strange at first, inex- 
pressibly rare and delightful and beautiful. 
I was a little stranger which at my entrance 
into the world was saluted and surrounded 
with innumerable joys. . . . I seemed as one 
brought into the estate of innocence. All 
things were spotless and pure and glorious ; 
yea, and infinitely mine and joyful and pre- 
cious. I knew not that there were any sinsy 
or complaints or laws. I dreamed not of 
poverties, contentions, or vices. All tears and 
quarrels were hidden from mine eyes. Every- 
thing was at rest, free and immortal. I knew 
nothing of sickness or death or exaction. . . . 
All Time was Eternity, and a perpetual Sab- 
bath. Is it not strange that an infant should 
be heir of the whole world, and see those 
mysteries which the books of the learned never 
unfold ? 

THOMAS TRAHERNE 



ODE on IMMORTALITY 



The Child is Father of the Man ; 
And T could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 



I 



Pnf 



'^S^ HERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight. 

To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light, 



The glory and the freshness of a dream, 
[t is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may. 
By night or day. 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 



II 

The Rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the Rose, 
The Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare, 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go. 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 

Ill 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. 
And while the young lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief : 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And I again am strong: 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 



No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
And all the earth is gay ; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity. 
And with the heart of May 
Doth every Beast keep holiday; — 
Thou Child of Joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
Shepherd-boy ! 

IV 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 
My heart is at your festival, 
My head hath its coronal. 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 



While Earth herself is adorning, 
This sweet May-morning, 

And the Children are culling 
On every side, 

In a thousand valleys far and wide, 

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, 
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm : — 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 

— But there's a Tree, of many, one, 
A single Field which I have looked upon. 
Both of them speak of something that is gone : 

The Pansy at my feet 

Doth the same tale repeat: 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 

V 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting. 



And cometh from afar : 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows 

He sees it in his joy; 
The Youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

VI 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 

7 



And, even with something of a Mother's mind, 

And no unworthy aim, 

The homely Nurse doth all she can 
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 

Forget the glories he hath known, 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

VII 

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies. 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral ; 
And this hath now his heart. 

And unto this he frames his song : 

8 



Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little Actor cons another part; 
Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

VIII 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy Soul's immensity; 
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 



On whom those truths do rest, 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
A Presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight. 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

IX 

O joy ! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live, 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 

lO 



The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 

But for those obstinate questionings 

Of sense and outward things, 

Fallings from us, vanishings ; 

Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realised, 
High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised : 
But for those first affections. 
Those shadowy recollections. 

Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 



1 1 



Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 

To perish never; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 

Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather, 

Though inland far we be. 
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 

Which brought us hither. 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

X 

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
And let the young Lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound ! 



12 



We in thought will join your throng, 

Ye that pipe and ye that play, 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May ! 
What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now for ever taken from my sight, 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind ; 

In the primal sympathy 

Which having been must ever be ; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering; 

In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XI 

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 
Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 

13 



Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 

I only have relinquished one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 

Is lovely yet ; 
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live. 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can Qrive 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



NINE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIVE COPIES OF 



THIS BOOK PRINTED ON VAN GELDER HAND- 



MADE PAPER FOR THOMAS B MOSHER AND 



PUBLISHED BY HIM AT PORTLAND MAINE IN 



THE MONTH OF SEPTEMBER MDCCCCVIII 




v 



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